


The light at the end of the tunnel by melian

by melian225



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: HPFT, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 13:39:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14498169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melian225/pseuds/melian225





	The light at the end of the tunnel by melian

 

 

Text in bold is taken from Chapter 8 of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ , by JK Rowling.

 

 

I feel almost shy as I approach the wedding venue. I have always been more comfortable on a broom than on land, and I am painfully aware I will know next to no one. But I have come because I am fond of Fleur and she entreated me to attend what she was sure would be the happiest day of her life.

Walking in, I am greeted by a red-headed stranger, probably a relation of the groom's. Half the people in the marquee seem to have red hair; it is clearly a dominant gene in that family. Amongst the sea of orange I recognise a tall, gangly boy, probably about seventeen, who I saw during my stay at Hogwarts three years earlier ... wasn't he a friend of Hermione's?

I smile to myself. While the distance made things impossible, I have very fond memories of Hermione. She was unimpressed by my sporting ability but accepted me anyway, for which I was very grateful - it seemed that all the girls I did get were only with me because I have a good eye for a Snitch. Hermione was different. Not a Quidditch fan, she looked past my celebrity and my awkward gait and heavy features to see the man inside, and she accepted me. Girls like her, I was recognising, were few and far between.

I wonder if Hermione is here now. I struggle to recall the name of the red-headed boy she was friends with, but I'm pretty sure he was a Weasley. Of course, that doesn't narrow things down very far, but then again Hermione and the Weasley boy were close to Harry Potter, so if _he's_ here then that would be the way to find her. All I would need to do is to look for the biggest crowd, because Harry would be bound to be in the middle of it, probably trying to get out.

I quite like Harry, what I know of him. Once I'd worked out he wasn't a rival for Hermione's affections, I allowed himself to become fond of the boy who, despite his fame, was remarkably sane and measured. Then again, if he wasn't then Hermione wouldn't have been his friend.

Hermione. There she is. Taller than I remember but even more beautiful, she's talking to the red-headed boy. They are so engrossed in talking with another redhead that they don't even see me approach, but when I show the first boy my invitation and tell Hermione how wonderful she looks, they certainly notice me then.

She stares at me as she says my name, so disconcerted that she drops her bag and scrambles to pick it up. Obviously she wasn't told I would be coming today. Neither was her friend, by the looks of it, as he demands an explanation of my presence almost viciously. Needless to say I am almost pleased when the other boy, the shorter redhead, shows me to my seat.

The wedding itself is nothing out of the ordinary, though the bride's Veela blood certainly makes her as beautiful a woman as anyone could hope to see. She is good and kind, too - in many ways an ideal woman. Bill Weasley is a lucky man.

As the reception gets underway, I watch as the tall red-headed boy takes Hermione's hand and leads her away, and my heart sinks. Perhaps they are a couple now. I might have missed my chance altogether.

Feeling horribly alone, I wander over to my allocated table and sit down, trying not to look at Hermione. To distract myself, I start watching the other people in the marquee, wondering what their stories are. There are a number of blonde girls together at one table, looking remarkably like they too have some Veela blood - probably relations of Fleur's. One notices me looking and waves shyly, but I turn away ... despite my fame and fortune, I have never been comfortable with the attention I receive just from being a Quidditch player. Looking quickly around, I notice a large man, probably in his fifties, wearing a very ostentatious yellow outfit with a large pendant around his neck. _Wait a moment_ , I think, horror-struck ... _can I see that pendant again? Is it really what I think it is?_ How that man has the _nerve_ to parade that symbol, and in the middle of a war fought on pretty much the same issues, is beyond me.

I find Hermione again - she has been acting as an usher and therefore should know who the offending guest is. Sitting down in a recently-vacated chair at her table, I indicate the man and ask who he is, perhaps a little more gruffly than I'd intended as I notice the protective stance the Weasley boy takes at my approach.

**"That's Xenophilius Lovegood, he's the father of a friend of ours,"** Weasley says defensively, trying to get between me and Hermione. And without waiting for a response, he grabs Hermione and leads her to the dance floor.

Watching them, I turn to the last boy at the table - the redhead who showed me in - and ask the question I dread the answer to: whether Hermione and the Weasley boy are now a couple.

The boy nods, and I feel my heart drop even further. This boy, this Weasley, can hardly realise how lucky he is, I think almost violently. But then I see Hermione look at him, her eyes alight, and I realise she never looked at me like that. This boy, whether he deserved her or not, has her heart. My chance has gone.

Scowling a little, I ask again about the man Lovegood - does the boy know him well? Why is he wearing Grindelwald's mark? But the boy seems to know next to nothing so I let my mind wander again and look around the marquee. The older bridesmaid, although young, is also a striking-looking girl, her flowing red hair marking her as doubtless yet another Weasley. I mention her to my redheaded guide.

He looks uncomfortable. **"Yeah, and she's seeing someone. Jealous type. Big bloke. You wouldn't want to cross him."**

That would be right. " **What is the point of being an international Quidditch player if all the good looking girls are taken?** "

Fighting the urge to growl, I stand up abruptly and find an empty table, musing angrily over the loss of Hermione - who, though I'd never really had her, I'd always felt somewhat proprietary about - and the strange-looking man who dares wear Grindelwald's mark. Finally, after arguing with my for what feels a long time, I go to confront the man.

"What do you think you are doing?" I hiss, grabbing the pendant in my hand and holding it up for the man to see. "You would dare to come here wearing the mark of Grindelwald?"

The man looks confused. "What are you talking about, dear lad? Grindelwald? This is not Grindelwald's mark at all!"

"He carved it into the wall at Durmstrang," I point out. "I am not mistaken, I walked past it every day for years. This is the mark of Grindelwald."

"Don't be ridiculous," the man says. "This has nothing to do with Grindelwald! This is the mark of the Deathly Hallows."

"It is Grindelwald's mark!" I insist, getting angrier by the minute. Why would someone wear the mark and then deny what it means? It makes no sense.

"Of course it's not," the man repeats, looking slightly alarmed as I fish inside my robes for my wand. "I really don't know where you're getting this idea from, but you are sadly mistaken."

I stare at the man, confused and yet furious for this insensitivity. My own grandfather died at the hands of Grindelwald's men - how could this man claim not to know about it? Giving up, I storm away angrily, not even bothering to hex the man. I can't quite believe anyone could be so stupid.

Suddenly a silvery creature, a big cat by the looks of things, flies into the marquee and lands in the middle of the dance floor, scattering the dancing couples. It opens its mouth and a low, deep voice permeates the room.

**"The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming."**

I freeze. I know enough about England to know that Scrimgeour is their new Minister for Magic, and this message, though strangely given, can only mean one thing. This Voldemort, the new Dark Lord, has won.

All around me, people are panicking, running every which way and disappearing left right and centre as they find their wands and Apparate away. Reaching inside my robes for my own wand, I suddenly feel a hand on my arm and almost immediately I too feel the suffocating sensation of Apparition - only, this time, it wasn't me who did it.

When I can breathe again, I can see I'm in a field somewhere, the wedding marquee nowhere in sight. Nearby is a farmhouse that looks abandoned, though perhaps it's a Muggle residence - I have trouble sometimes telling the difference, especially at night if there are no lights on. Surprised, I look around for my rescuer.

It's the Veela girl who waved to me earlier, looking remarkably shy as she stares up at me. "'Allo," she says carefully, her English clearly coming with difficulty. "I am sorry that I pulled you away. But there were - um - bad people coming and your wand was not out." She pauses, looking searchingly at me. "You are not angry, no?"

Relaxing a little, I shake my head. "No, I am not angry. I just wonder why you helped me."

She smiles nervously. "Your wand was not out," she repeats, still slowly as she chooses her words with care. "And we do not want to see Bulgaria lose in next year's World Cup because they do not ‘ave their Seeker."

My heart sinks. Of course it's about that - the Quidditch thing again. "You're a Quidditch fan?" I ask.

The girl shakes her head. " _Non_. But _mon pere_ \- sorry, my father, 'e is very 'appy with the Quidditch. 'E tells me you are worth saving from the fight." She pauses again. "I am Francoise. Fleur is my cousin."

I smile at her. The girl is at least trying. "I am Viktor," I say, taking her offered hand to shake.

She looks nervous again. "You are - what is the word - intriguing."

I smile again. Intriguing I can work with - at least she hasn't said I'm handsome. I always know girls are lying when they say that.

"Where are we?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "It was the first place I could think of that is in England. It is where we landed from the Portkey from France. I think the place is called Dover." She shivers a little and I realise that she's wearing just a flimsy gown, with no cloak or robes to cover her from the night breeze.

"Here," I say, trying not to notice her beauty, or the way she trembles when I touch her, "have my cloak. I'm not cold."

I put it around her, and a warm glow appears in her cheeks. She looks up at me gratefully. "You are sure?"

"Of course," I say, allowing myself to grab her hand again. She doesn't pull away. "And we are safe here. Come closer, we will sit out the night together. Everything will be all right." 

 

 


End file.
